North -- Heaney

I returned to a long strand,

the hammered curve of a bay,   

and found only the secular

powers of the Atlantic thundering.

I faced the unmagical

invitations of Iceland,

the pathetic colonies

of Greenland, and suddenly

those fabulous raiders,

those lying in Orkney and Dublin   

measured against

their long swords rusting,

those in the solid

belly of stone ships,

those hacked and glinting

in the gravel of thawed streams

were ocean-deafened voices

warning me, lifted again

in violence and epiphany.

The longship’s swimming tongue

was buoyant with hindsight—

it said Thor’s hammer swung

to geography and trade,

thick-witted couplings and revenges,

the hatreds and behind-backs

of the althing, lies and women,   

exhaustions nominated peace,   

memory incubating the spilled blood.

It said, ‘Lie down

in the word-hoard, burrow   

the coil and gleam

of your furrowed brain.

Compose in darkness.   

Expect aurora borealis   

in the long foray

but no cascade of light.

Keep your eye clear

as the bleb of the icicle,

trust the feel of what nubbed treasure   

your hands have known.’

Image Credit: Polar Sea by Caspar David Friedrich